


Occasions

by tansy



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansy/pseuds/tansy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parties at court are not for everyone. Hero Queen/Ben Finn/Page fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occasions

'Someone doesn't look happy.'

From a corner of the ballroom as far removed from the throng as possible, the queen tapped idly on her wine glass. Page matched the angle of her gaze, settling on a tall, squirrelly man with terrible shoes on leaning on a buffet table as though it owed him money. You know those shoes with little bells on them rightly reserved for jesters because they were utterly ridiculous? He was wearing those, but they were worse than usual by an order of several magnitudes, because there were several bells on each foot and they all made a slightly different noise when he shuffled his feet around.

'Who is that?' the queen added.

'Oh, the Duke of Greatwood,' Page replied. 'Mmm.'

'There's no Duke of Greatwood,' said the queen slowly, raising an eyebrow.

'Well, that's what he's introducing himself as,' Page said, shrugging. 'You should really pay more attention to your kingdom, love.'

Status notwithstanding, it wasn't the Duke who was looking less than thrilled. It was Ben Finn, who had been cornered by the fellow and was being forced into conversation by way of having words shouted at him. Some of them had an upward inflection, so Ben was obliged to respond.

Ben had a tell. He had a variety of tells, actually. It was the character fault that made him shit at poker, and at diplomatic relations, because it was not so much a hint as a slap in the face that he was not interested in the slightest. In this case, his tell was the speed at which he was now knocking back his wine.

'One of us is going to have to save him,' said Page. The queen snorted.

'He can deal with it.' 

Page let out a small sigh, which the queen chose to ignore.

'That dress looks good on you,' she said to Page softly, reaching out to adjust a clasp at Page's shoulder that was ever so slightly askew.

'You would say that,' Page said, tilting her head.

'You can keep it,' she said. 'And then you can't complain you've got nothing to wear next time.'

Page's eyebrow quirked.

'I had something to wear.' She said. 'You spilled wine on it.'

'That doesn't sound like something I'd do,' the queen hummed lightly, fingers lingering a touch on the gathered fabric at Page's hips. It was a nice dress. Green, laced with shine, cut low. It had been bestowed upon the queen by a visiting dignitary last summer with the assurance that it would make her the envy of all who beheld her, but in the queen's humble opinion it looked much better on Page.

'Must've been someone else, then.' Page said, draping an arm elegantly over the queen's shoulder. After a moment, she said:  
'You have got to do something about those streamers.'

Every thirty or so seconds, someone would trip over one of the bits of fabric adorning the bannisters of the main staircase. Why someone had deemed a staircase a good place for assorted strips of brightly coloured fabric at dangerous lengths was something of a mystery. It was a health and safety hazard someone should be accountable for. It was also very funny. 

'I don't.' Nobody had broken their neck yet, so everything was probably fine. 'That's the best thing that's come out of this party.'  
Page put her glass down.

'Oh, so there is something wrong.'

'No, there isn't.' said the queen swiftly with all the plausibility of someone who tells very obvious lies.

Page raised an eyebrow at the exact angle mathematicians would later agree marks the universal sign for _I do not believe you in the slightest._

A particularly loud burst of incredibly forced laughter came from the direction of the Duke of Awful Shoes. Ben caught the queen's eye mid-desperate laugh. His expression was pained. He had run out of wine. Page leaned in close to murmur into her ear.

'Go on,' she said, 'I'll field the nobles.'

'Oh, fine.'

The queen broke away from Page at the exact moment some well-to-do Millfields type stumbled three steps down the stairs and lost his Brie. She sauntered past the scene and steeled herself for the obligatory pleasantries. The pure, unadulterated relief on Ben's face upon her approach was something to behold. You could have written a sonnet for it.

'Hello, love,' he said.

'Your Majesty,' said the Duke. His shoes jingled when he bowed. Disgusting.

'My apologies,' said the queen. 'I need to borrow Captain Finn for a moment.' 

Neither the queen or Ben waited for his acknowledgement before they made a break for it. Seeking refuge behind a stack of lager crates next to a small dessert-laden table, Ben shook his head slowly.

'I can't believe how much some people can talk about root vegetables,' he said, running a hand through his hair. 'I refuse to believe he takes that much pleasure in his work.'  
She shrugged. 

'Duke of Greatwood, apparently.'

'There's no Duke of Greatwood,' he said suspiciously, putting his empty glass down and helping himself to a miniature quiche from a passing waiter (cheese and ham, if you must know).

'I know!' She threw her hands up. 'And I'll tell you why, it's because there's nothing in Greatwood!'

'Apparently there is a positively booming beetroot industry, I'll have you know.' he said, pointing a finger. She laughed.

'Oh, you can take it up with Hobson. I didn't invite any of these people,' she said. Ben caught the edge of petulance in her tone, though it would have been harder to miss it.

'Are you not having a good time?'

She chewed her lip.  
'It's not that...' she began, trailing off and hoping that would do.

Ben pushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, hands finding her hips and pulling her in to him. Very inappropriate at court, but that was Ben Finn for you, look him over right in the morning and he'll have his hand under your skirts before breakfast.

'Well,' he said, 'I'm told a great deal of effort went into this shindig,'

'I know,' the queen pursed her lips, fingers finding his neck, tracing an old scar half-healed, 'and I'm not ungrateful, it's just- okay, for one. Look at this cake.' she pointed to the table behind them, at a cake, _the_ cake, all sparkles and roses and _hers-_ 'One cake does not need so many candles. That is a fire hazard.'

'Oh,' said Ben flatly. 'It's because you're getting old.'

'Hey now,' she said, 'shut up.' She let go of him and found a glass of champagne to occupy her hands instead. She motioned over to Page, who had been lumbered with the aftermath of the Brie disaster. 

'What's wrong?' she said as she approached, craning to Ben's touch as he kissed her neck. 

'I'm old,' said the queen. Page tapped her lightly on the forehead.

'Oh be quiet. We're older than you are.'

Ben laughed. 

'Yeah, that won't make her feel any better though, hmmmm?'

Twenty-four was not old. That was a ridiculous notion by anyone's standards. There was a ham hock older than that in the castle larder. It was ridiculous by anyone's standards save for the standards of someone who has been quite happily twenty-three for the last three hundred and sixty-five days.

'Shut up, Ben.' she said quietly into her champagne. He was nearer thirty, _but not yet!_ , still as full of charm and bounce and bite as he'd been at eighteen.  
Yes, she grudgingly admitted, it was her birthday. This was all for her, all the banners and wine and dancing and the cellist someone had retrieved from a cupboard, dusted off and planted firmly in the middle of the ballroom. And look, it wasn't like she didn't like to be made a fuss of. It was just- this wasn't her. These weren't her terms, these weren't her guests. These were definitely not her streamers. Eight days ago Hobson had toddled into the war room and invited her to her own party, courtesy of, well, him and a few dozen party planners from the breadth of the kingdom.

'They meant well,' Page said softly.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I know.' Regardless of intent, this was expected of her. Grandiose displays, any semblance of intimacy forfeit in the name of hobnobbing with the upper classes. That was politics, yes? And this had been very expensive, so she would have to put up with it, yes?

'Right then,' said Ben, with a nod to Page, 'we knew you wouldn't like this so we've done something better for you instead.'

'Hmm?'

Page took the glass from the queen's hand gently and tugged her forwards.

'Come on.'  
They stole away from the congregation, past unconscious guests and designated carriage-drivers nursing glasses of water, up the staircase more commonly employed by the castle staff. The fifteenth stair creaked, as was its wont.

'Won't someone notice?' said the queen, hitching her dress from underneath her heel. 'It's hardly seemly to leave my own party prematurely.'

Ben snorted. 'And what are they going to say?'

'You are the queen,' Page added, 'I think it's alright.'

They took a left, cornering through to a wing of the castle the queen seldom visited, reserved usually for visiting dignitaries and financiers. Reaver had claimed an office here, though from the looks of it he was using it less to conduct business and more to store things he didn't want in his manor.  
They stopped at the penultimate room on the corridor, doors shut save for a tiny crack through which the queen could see nothing but a spill of light.

'We thought you might prefer this,' said Page. 'It's not- it's not a lot, but...' 

Ben nudged her gently.

'Go on then.' he said to the queen. She ventured past them, creaking the door open gently.  
The contents of the room could be itemised simply: a bed. A basket from the kitchens. A bottle of white wine. A lit fireplace. Then, behind her, Ben. Page.  
More importantly, no forced conversation or unwelcome guests. The commotion from the ballroom was a faint thrum from below. Things that could not be itemised. _Ben. Page._

'Well?' Ben said, Page at his side. It was hard to miss the trepidation in his voice.  
The queen nodded, closed the distance, kissed them fully in turn. This was her, and this was them.


End file.
